


Tomorrow We Move Forward

by Oilan



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Friends to Lovers, July Revolution, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the time leading up to the July Revolution, Enjolras and Combeferre struggle to achieve progress - both in their political affairs and with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [Kat](http://takethewatch.tumblr.com) and [Clara](http://feuillyova.tumblr.com) for the betas and hand-holding!

Winter, 1828.

Combeferre pulled his coat tighter around himself and sped his pace, steps quick and irritated. The weather had been clear and crisp all day but was now quickly deteriorating as the sun dipped behind the buildings, and it would not do to be caught in a snow shower. His rooms on the Rue des Marais were only a short walk from the Musain and he reached his building in good time, bidding the porter a terse good night and trudging up to his flat on the third floor. Ordinarily he would have checked the live specimens lining shelves interspaced with books and scientific equipment, but as it was, he merely shed his damp outer clothing and lit the stove before standing pensively at the window. Snow was falling in earnest now, and he could barely make out the person entering his building a quarter hour later. Regardless, the knock that came a minute later was completely expected. Combeferre steeled himself.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open and Enjolras entered, clumps of wet snow dusting his hat and shoulders. He glanced at Combeferre, mouth a thin line, before wordlessly removing his hat and brushing it off. In the face of his silence, Combeferre spoke again.

“You arrived here sooner than I anticipated. I take it your conversation with Pontmercy was rather short-winded.”

Enjolras shook his head, frowning. “He seemed much keener to leave than continue speaking, and I would rather not keep him where he does not want to stay. Your retort to his speech caught him off-guard, Combeferre. In truth, I doubt it was the appropriate response.”

“And why would that be?” Combeferre took a deep breath, attempting to stem his growing irritation. “Pontmercy seems like a good man. He is certainly passionate in his opinions, and Courfeyrac has a great deal of trust and esteem in him. Frankly, the latter is all I need to welcome into the fold with open arms. His long soliloquy about Bonaparte, however-“ He sighed. “We are all united in our convictions, regardless of whether we agree on the details. However, from what we heard from him today, Pontmercy’s views veer too strongly in a different direction. Better to put a quick stop to it, and let you have a word with him in private.”

Enjolras bowed his head. “For that, I thank you. But Combeferre, I would have thought that you would be supportive of furthering the education of someone like Pontmercy. You believe that progress should be achieved through education, do you not? How can he learn – how can _any_ of us – if discussion is extinguished before it begins?”

“If a single retort renders him unwilling to return to our meetings, then perhaps he is not _ready_ to learn as of yet.”

Combeferre turned to gaze out of the window again. The snow was falling heavier still, and a modicum of guilt at abruptly cutting off their conversation crept up on him. Enjolras did not seem angry, however. Indeed, after a moment had passed, he joined Combeferre at the window and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Combeferre sighed.

“My apologies. I… I know I am too sharp at times.”

“Those times are rare, my friend.” Enjolras squeezed his shoulder before letting his hand fall. It left an odd coldness in its place. “There is no harm done, in any case. Pontmercy will likely not return to our meetings, at least not for a while. Remember, though, Courfeyrac has faith in him. We should as well; he may yet change his views.”

“Hmm.” Combeferre privately harbored doubts about this, but these he did not voice. “It’s true that Courfeyrac will be disappointed if Pontmercy decides not to return.”

“Yes, I’m sure he will. Speaking of which, I half expected to find Courfeyrac here as well. Did he return to his rooms instead?”

“No, not yet. He will be joining us later. He went off to buy pastries, as he seemed to think there would be an argument imminent, and will always abide by his philosophy that pastries are the solution to all ills. Well, perhaps excluding illness brought on by eating too many pastries.” Combeferre looked up in time to see Enjolras’ brow crease, and he attempted to stifle a laugh. “Oh, do not pretend as though you are displeased.”

“There was no need for him to take the trouble to buy us such overpriced frivolities.”

Combeferre smiled and laid a hand over Enjolras’. “Frivolities or no, you enjoy pastries; you cannot hide it from us. They make you happy, and what is so wrong with that? You are half of the reason Courfeyrac and I keep a stock of baked goods in our flats, whether you appreciate the gesture or not!”

Enjolras looked down at Combeferre, surprised. “Of _course_ I appreciate it.”

Before Combeferre could chuckle at this display of sincerity, the door banged open and Courfeyrac shuffled in, muffler and hat covering nearly his entire face, clutching a package stuffed with sweets. The other two hurried from the window to help him out of his coat as Courfeyrac stomped the snow off his boots.

“By God, it’s absolutely frigid out there! We’re going to have a full-blown storm on our hands if this continues.” Courfeyrac shuddered dramatically. “We’ll be snowed in, stuck in Combeferre’s flat for weeks on end with only each other and whatever _those_ things are for company.” He pointed at an insect specimen jar Combeferre had left on his desk that morning.

“My _Hepialus humuli_ larvae. They will be pupating in just a few-“

“They are _revolting_ , and nearly enough to make me lose my appetite.”

“One can only assume a loss of appetite is an advantage when snowed in, as we will apparently be trapped without food,” said Enjolras with a wry smile.

“Well! Luckily, I had the foresight to grab these for us! Mind you don’t eat them too quickly, Enjolras. You will doom us all if you do.” Courfeyrac presented Enjolras with the package of sweets, ignoring the nettled expression he received in return.

“We won’t be stuck inside, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said. “The snow will die down before morning, I expect. Thank you for braving the elements for the pastries, in any case.”

“Not at all.” Courfeyrac cast a hesitant glance at Enjolras before continuing. “So. About Marius-“

“Enjolras had a brief conversation with him, and said he doubts Pontmercy will rejoin us.”

Courfeyrac’s face fell. “No, I suppose not. He could not possibly have been accustomed to our full-blown political banter just yet. I… I presume it was rather too much for him to take in, being so new.”

“I assume he needed a gentler introduction than what I gave him,” said Combeferre, but before he could say anything more, Enjolras’ hand was back on his shoulder.

“That is the reason I stayed behind,” said Enjolras. “He did not seem to want to stay even then. I’m sorry, Courfeyrac. I know you were eager for him to join us.”

“Yes.” Courfeyrac was still frowning. “Well, perhaps he will come around eventually. I admit, he’s a bit peculiar, but a he’s good person, really. He’ll return after he’s had some time to process everything. I do hope so, anyway.” Enjolras nodded. In the hope of lightening the mood, Combeferre gently took the package of sweets from Enjolras and fished out two macarons, handing one each to his friends. Finally, Courfeyrac smiled.

“I should be going, actually. Perhaps I will look in on Marius and see if I can persuade him to return- or at least smooth everything over. You know, I almost expected the two of you to be having a disagreement over this. I should have known better.”

“We did, I suppose.” Combeferre shook his head. “Listen, Courfeyrac. If you are going to leave so soon, take some of these sweets with you. You bought them, after all.”

Courfeyrac grinned again, moving to don his coat once more. “No, no! I have some in my rooms already, which I am sure is no surprise to you. Besides, Enjolras will probably cry if I took them from him! That is, if there are any left to take.” He nodded at Enjolras who, with a mouth full of madeleine now, was unable to retort.

Combeferre fought to keep a straight face. “Aren’t you going to share any with me?”

Enjolras flushed slightly. “Of course I will share-“ He was cut off by Courfeyrac’s laughter.

“You two! Play nicely; try not to fight over those pastries. I bought them to elicit good humor, after all! I really should be going, though. Before the snow worsens.”

Courfeyrac took his leave, and after the door had clicked shut, Enjolras retrieved his hat.

“I should return home as well. There are a few tasks I need to complete before our next meeting. I might as well begin now.”

“Oh. The meeting is not until next week,” Combeferre said, slightly taken aback.

“Yes. I should get started all the same. There is a letter to a new contact I am attempting to finish – a potential new supplier of gunpowder when the need arises, a man named Perrault. Bahorel had said the fellow is very cautious of new inquiries about his stores. A promising sign, as he seems discreet, though my letter to him requires a certain delicacy. It is not one of my strengths. If you could look it over, I would be most grateful.”

“Of course I will. You know you are free to retrieve your work and complete it here, if you like. I have some reading I would like to finish, myself. Go get your things and we will work on it. I’ll stoke the fire in the meantime.”

Enjolras lived in the student hôtel just to the right, and so within ten minutes he was back in Combeferre’s sitting room, slightly damp once more from the snow. Combeferre guided him to his preferred seat by the fire – an ancient and lumpy armchair – and they both settled down to work, books and papers piled next to Combeferre on the settee. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes.


	2. New Year

Winter, 1828.

The New Year was fast approaching, and though the winter break for the students of Paris had already been underway for a full week, all of the leading members of Les Amis de l’ABC had decided to stay in the city over the holidays. The work required by the Society was blessedly light at the moment. Meetings tended to be efficient and conclude early, allowing the group to focus on more diverting activities than drafting pamphlets and writing to contacts.

At the end of one such meeting, Combeferre had retreated to his favorite corner in the backroom of the Café Musain, a stack of scientific publications at his disposal. Beside him, Courfeyrac refilled their glasses of wine and, after giving him a jovial clap on the back, sauntered off to watch Bossuet and Joly play each other at dominoes. Enjolras took Courfeyrac’s seat a few minutes later, having packed away the majority of his papers. He was diligently editing a letter, written by Feuilly and meant to be sent to their working contacts in the south. Accordingly, Combeferre pulled a few extra sheets of blank paper from his own bag for Enjolras and caught his eye.

“You could take a _short_ break, you know. After you finish with Feuilly’s letter, I mean. I know you have other work you mean to complete without taking a rest.” He smiled at Enjolras’ raised eyebrow. “It is the holidays, after all.”

Enjolras’ lips curved upward, though he kept writing. “And what would you have me do instead?”

Combeferre nudged one of the scientific articles toward him; Enjolras appeared entirely unsurprised. “You might read one of these papers. This one details a discovery made just this past year. A chemist in Germany has managed to synthesize urea- ah, a compound found only in the natural world, or previously so, in any case. But the creation of a chemical such as this in a laboratory - albeit by sheer accident - has enormous implications regarding…” He trailed off after catching sight of Enjolras’ wider smile. “You are humoring me.”

Enjolras inclined his head. “ _Humoring_ you? No. If you say this discovery has profound implications, it must surely be so. But I do not have the scientific background to understand it.”

Combeferre flicked Enjolras’ shoulder, though he was unable to keep a straight face. “I will still explain the paper to you, as you law students avoid science almost as diligently as you avoid attending lectures.”

“As we should! We are at constant risk of infection; I am sure you doctors can relate.” Bahorel had stridden over to them. He scanned the papers laid over the table with an expression of deep, near-theatrical distain. “Please, merciful Supreme Being, do not tell me that _this_ is what the two of you do to amuse yourselves. From Enjolras, I expect it. Combeferre, I had thought better of you. Marginally. In any case, I have heard your silent, desperate pleas for a real diversion, and I have come to your rescue.”

“Leave them be, Bahorel!” Courfeyrac called from across the room. “They may do what they please.”

“You would make fun too, _de Courfeyrac_ , if you could see what they are reading. But listen up, _dearest_ friends! This shall be the very first New Year’s we will all spend together, and my allowance has just come in! The situation requires celebration – and no small amount of drunkenness. A solid dinner and an evening of _La Muette de Portici:_ this is my proposal. And Enjolras, I know you do not enjoy the opera, and I will not offend your sense of liberty by forcing you to attend, but I must emphasize that this one features a revolution.”

“One of the heroines throws herself into a volcano,” Jean Prouvaire said from a neighboring table, lanky frame folded awkwardly into his chair. He did not elaborate.

“A happier fate than that which would greet us if Bahorel does not get his way,” Bossuet said, leaning back in his seat to shoot a wry glance at Bahorel, whose expression of feigned innocence fooled no one. “New Year’s Eve, then? What time and which restaurant? Not that I am picky, nor one to refuse such _profound_ generosity, mind.”

Combeferre looked to Enjolras. “What do you think?”

Enjolras shrugged half-heartedly. “As you said- it _is_ the holidays, after all.”

 

* * *

 

Bahorel had been quite right about _La Muette_ ; there were perhaps more romantic ploys than appealed to Enjolras’ tastes – or Combeferre’s for that matter – but the backdrop of rebellion stirred them both nevertheless. Combeferre did not miss Bahorel’s satisfied smirk as he looked over at Enjolras, who was aglow with rapt attention.

He remained entirely engrossed until the climactic fight scene, during which Enjolras frowned at the stage before him. He then cast a glance to his right to where Combeferre sat, half-watching Enjolras’ amusing reactions to the volcano.

“Does this scene not seem a little overly dramatic to you?” Enjolras whispered.

Combeferre stifled a laugh. “A battle to the death near the edge of an active volcano? How do you expect our _own_ revolution to be fought? Were you perhaps hoping for something a little more practical? Oh- Masaniello seems to have died.”

“Well, while I am now wondering why I agreed to attend the opera in the first place, _Amour Sacré de la Patrie_ was an excellent anthem at the very least. Perhaps this type of theater will resonate with-“

In the seat directly in front of Enjolras, Courfeyrac turned around to face them, his expression a mixture of frustration and anguish.

“While I _promise_ to discuss the politics of this opera with you _later_ and with _great enthusiasm_ , can’t the two of you quiet down and focus on the story for just one minute _now?_ I’m so worried about- Fenella, _oh God!_ ”

From somewhere behind them, Prouvaire muttered, “You see, didn’t I tell you? What wonderful acting by Mademoiselle Noblet, don’t you think?” Courfeyrac put his face in his hands and suppressed a sob. “Oh, Courfeyrac. She died a death fit for the most Romantic of souls. There is no need to be distressed…”

Combeferre elbowed Enjolras gently and Enjolras, even as he reached out to pat Courfeyrac on the back, put a hand over his mouth to hide a smile.

 

* * *

 

“Why is it that even during special occasions, we always end up back _here_ instead of somewhere better?” Courfeyrac waved a hand around the upstairs room of the Corinthe, completely missing the insulted glare Mère Hucheloup shot him as she brought up their bottles of wine. He had more or less pulled himself together after the opera had concluded, though he still sniffled a little on occasion.

“It suits us well, Courfeyrac,” said Bossuet. “It is as familiar, as comfortable, and as filled with drunken exploits as the companionship amongst us all. Now, are you going to just stand there, or are you going to pour out glasses for us? It’s nearly midnight, by my watch.”

“By _my_ watch, you mean.” Joly thanked Mère Hucheloup and started pouring out wine for all. “ _Hurry_ now, take your glasses! Here you are Feuilly, Combeferre. Enjolras?”

Five minutes later, midnight had struck and the group toasted 1829. Even Enjolras took a few sips from his glass before setting the remainder in front of Combeferre, who took it up after he had finished with his own.

Regardless of the amount of wine consumed, the night was slowly turning into a blur. Combeferre stifled a yawn and leaned into Enjolras’ side. Enjolras had been amusedly watching Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and Bossuet commandeer the rickety upright piano in the corner to play a horrendously off-key version of _La Carmagnole_ , but now looked down at him.

“You are tired. Do you want to leave?”

“Hmm? No, not just yet. No one else is leaving, and the night is still young. Besides, I’ve yet to tell you about that paper I gave you a few days ago, though I trust you’ve neglected to read it, lawyer.”

Enjolras smiled. “Don’t let Bahorel hear you insulting me with such a title. And I _have_ read the paper, but of course you may tell me all about it anyway. I would not presume to stop you.”

“Well, I was about to explain the repercussions of Friedrich Wöhler’s synthesis of urea, if I recall correctly. I mean, the synthesis of a natural chemical has disproven vitalism, and what are the implications of _that?_ ” Combeferre shook his head. It was astounding the extent to which a few minutes and a few more sips of wine could muddle one’s thoughts. “What- how are living creatures different from nonliving things, really? How are _you_ , say, different from a- a rock? Or a balloon?”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “A balloon?”

“It’s not a perfect example. Or maybe it is. It is a nonliving object. If there is no vital spark, then… what?” Combeferre did not realize he was upset until the agitation fell away upon Enjolras laying a cool hand over his.

Combeferre looked down at their fingers. “Perhaps every bit of us can be created in a laboratory.”

“Perhaps there is more to it than simply that. You are a bit drunk, my friend- and we are both tired. Come, it’s time we went home.” He squeezed Combeferre’s hand. “I promise you, I will sit down for your science lesson tomorrow.” Combeferre felt his face heat up, inexplicably.

“I- all right.” Upon rising from his chair, he hesitated. “I’m not very drunk, you know. I’ve only had a glass and a half.”

Enjolras’ eyes flickered over to the piano across the room where Grantaire, very red in the face, was loudly hooting with laughter at some witty lyric of Bossuet’s. “No, you aren’t.”

On their way downstairs, Enjolras paused briefly to tell Feuilly he would return the edited letter by the following day.

“Why are you editing his letter, anyway?” Combeferre asked as they stepped outside and strode down the street, the cold air a relief after the stuffiness of the Corinthe. “Feuilly is more than capable-“

“Oh, I know, and I told him so.” Enjolras shook his head fondly. “He asked me to look it over, and so I will.”

“An extra set of eyes never hurt.” At Enjolras’ sideways glance, Combeferre amended, “Figuratively speaking, that is. By God, I’m tired.”

“We’ll be home soon enough.” Enjolras took Combeferre’s arm and placed it through his own. “It does not seem as though the streets are quite as crowded as usual.”

“Not everyone has a student’s _wayward_ schedule, I suppose.”

Combeferre gripped Enjolras’ arm to steady himself as they crossed Pont Neuf, the dark water of the Seine passing below them. It made Combeferre slightly uneasy, for some reason.

After a short silence, during which Combeferre breathed a silent sigh of relief at being on the Left Bank again, Enjolras spoke once more.

“Do you have any resolutions for the coming year?”

Combeferre would have nearly mistaken this for mild chatter to fill the silence – something in which Enjolras never took part – if it were not for his somber expression.

“Does the New Year make you pensive?”

Enjolras gave a tired half-smile. “Rather. I always find myself reflecting on the past year, and whether this coming year will have us reaching our goals. Whether this will be the year the future will be seized.”

“There is always a chance, my friend. You know this.” Combeferre rubbed Enjolras’ arm comfortingly. “Our time is coming nearer with every passing day. Do not be troubled; progress marches ever onward. Humanity will reach its destined state in due time.”

“Yes. Sooner rather than later is, however, the ideal.” Enjolras slowed his pace and Combeferre, after a moment of confusion, realized they had reached the Rue des Marais and stopped before his building.

“Oh.”

Enjolras released his arm. “You are all right going upstairs alone?”

“Yes.” Combeferre paused, and then took Enjolras’ hand between both of his own. “Do not be worried about the coming year. Regardless of what we achieve or what we do not, we are certain to be closer to our aims.” Combeferre’s lips quirked upwards as Enjolras smiled. “1829 is certain to be an enlightening year. I can feel it.”

“You never fail to set me at ease.” Enjolras surveyed him with a peculiar expression, at once curious and full of fondness. His grip on Combeferre’s hand tightened. “Good night, my friend. I’ll see you tomorrow? Perhaps we might have breakfast.”

“Of course. Where else would I be?”


	3. Balance

Spring, 1829.

“I am treating the two of you to iced cream after this; there is no objection you could make that would dissuade me of that!”

Courfeyrac was practically skipping, several paces ahead of Combeferre and Enjolras, a huge smile lighting up his face. Enjolras laughed softly, treading along at a leisurely pace on Combeferre’s left. “Neither of us would _dare_ defy you, my friend.”

“I will pretend your retorts are earnest rather than sarcastic, Enjolras. You are very welcome to my generosity, and in turn I thank you for being so _grateful_. Truer friends than we three have never existed, I am sure.”

“ _That_ is the truth,” said Enjolras, and his sincerity caught Courfeyrac off-guard. He glanced back for a moment to smile at the pair of them.

Combeferre sighed, content. What an incredibly lovely day it was, the first Paris had seen in many months! The grey skies would be upon them again soon enough, but today was clear and blue, and the three of them had easily agreed on a walk through the Jardin du Luxembourg. The gardens were bustling, the denizens of the city cheerful to be out and about on a fine day. Courfeyrac merrily tipped his hat to a group of passing women; Enjolras linked his arm with Combeferre’s.

“Courfeyrac, where are you going in such a hurry?” chuckled Combeferre. “I thought you had wanted to enjoy the weather and the scenery. Wouldn’t you like to sit down for a bit? We can hardly keep up with you!”

“How can you both be so _calm_ when we have been stuck indoors for _weeks_? Very well then, we’ll stop for a moment. _Only a moment though, mind you!_ There are too many lovely things to see to remain idle for long!”

They had sat down on a bench beside the Fontaine Médicis for barely a minute before one gamin, followed closely by a second, ran up from behind and grabbed Courfeyrac’s hat. Courfeyrac yelped and immediately sprung after them, all three laughing.

“Well, that peace did not last long,” said Combeferre.

“Hmm.” Enjolras, after watching Courfeyrac run after the two boys for a few seconds, leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes. The sun shined off his hair. Combeferre looked away before speaking again.

“By the way, have you heard back from Perrault? You sent the completed letter to him by way of Bahorel, didn’t you?”

“Yes, just a few weeks after the New Year.” Enjolras breathed deeply, his eyes still shut.

“And?”

“I received a response. It does not appear promising. We will need to gain his trust further or find someone else for the job. It would be a shame to fail to persuade him. Bahorel reports that Perrault is exceptionally skilled at creating black powder; he would be able to provide us with a stock that is both pure and reliable for use.” Enjolras’ brows creased. “While I understand the desire to be careful when one could so easily be reported to the police, I do not understand what is taking so long. We know Perrault is sympathetic to our cause. It is worth the risk.”

Combeferre smiled privately. “Bahorel mentioned he has a family.”

“Yes?”

“One cannot expect everyone to abstain from all matters unrelated to our work, Enjolras.”

“I don’t expect anyone to abstain.”

“No, all right. Then you cannot expect everyone to be willing to _risk_ things they deem to be of importance, in the same way we are-“ Combeferre pressed Enjolras’ hand gently. “-whether those things are outside our cause or not.”

He turned to look at his friend again. Enjolras was already gazing at him, searching his face, eyes very blue in the sunlight. Throat suddenly a bit constricted, Combeferre continued stiffly: “It may be more useful to visit this man in person; writing can only do so much. If you would like, I could accompany-“ He was interrupted by a triumphant shout from behind them.

“Ah _HAH!_ I have you now!” Combeferre and Enjolras whipped around to see Courfeyrac swipe his top hat back from the gamins. He placed it carefully back onto his head, gave the gamins a smile and a few coins, and wandered back over to the other two.

“Many thanks for your help with the hat. What excellent friends I find myself blessed with!” Courfeyrac seemed amused rather than upset as he sat himself on Enjolras’ right.

“Surely you must be accustomed to losing hats by now?” Enjolras returned to leaning back on the bench, his eyes closed again, soaking in the warmth of the sun. Combeferre released his hand. Courfeyrac glanced at the movement briefly, and then put a hand to his heart.

“You would be so heartless as to let me _embarrass_ myself _yet again_ by running about _sans_ hat?” He shook his head. “I am not _Prouvaire_ , you know!”

“Perhaps you could set a trend, Courfeyrac,” said Combeferre, unable to suppress a grin. At this, Courfeyrac attempted an affronted expression; it was unconvincing.

“A _hatless_ trend?” He thought for a moment. “It would certainly make my life easier, though _far_ less interesting.”

“And how would the haberdashery stay in business without you?” Enjolras asked. He said this without opening his eyes, and therefore missed the half-miffed look Courfeyrac gave him.

“Enjolras, are you simply going to stay like that all day? Don’t you want to enjoy the sights? Visit other places in such fine weather?”

“We have not been sitting here ten minutes, and I have been dragged from my rooms while I could be completing work instead. I will do as I please.”

Combeferre nudged him. “We hardly dragged you anywhere; you have been just as eager to leave your flat as we were to leave ours. Even you need to venture out into the sunshine at some point – it suits you.”

Enjolras opened his eyes and looked over again, and Combeferre froze, suddenly embarrassed. Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows and though Combeferre braced himself for another playful jibe, all Courfeyrac said was, “Well. We have remained here long enough for my tastes. I promised the two of you iced cream.”

“ _Threatened_ us with iced cream.” The corner of Enjolras’ mouth lifted, amused.

“Do not complain about it, or I will consider revoking my offer. Or worse- I will buy _myself_ iced cream and eat it in front of you while you both suffer without _any!_ After that, perhaps we could visit the Jardin des Plantes. I’m sure there is some obscure medicinal herb Combeferre would like to examine for entirely too long- and I want to see the elephants.”

Enjolras sat up and stretched. “Very well, then. If we are going to the Jardin des Plantes, we should make our way there now, before it becomes too warm.”

Once more, Courfeyrac grinned and lead the way down the path. Combeferre, still a little distracted, hardly noticed Enjolras’ concerned glances until Enjolras elbowed him gently, smiling a little.

“Are you all right?”

Combeferre glanced at Courfeyrac, several paces ahead of them again, and then at Enjolras’ expectant face. His chest tightened slightly.

“Yes,” he said. “Perfectly fine.”

 

* * *

 

A week or so later, on a warm evening, Combeferre and Enjolras made their way west, to one of the poorer neighborhoods in Paris, just at the edge of the city. For several days beforehand, Enjolras had been corresponding with Perrault, and the man had eventually agreed to meet face to face.

“I’m certain speaking with him directly will help,” Combeferre said as they turned a corner. “It is sometimes difficult to truly express our intentions in writing; debate is more convincing in person.”

“Hmm. It is simply that Perrault is fully aware of our opinions now, as we are of his, and all that needs to be done is to convince him to act.”

“Remember, though- he does have his reasons for being cautious. A man with dependents cannot act rashly.”

Enjolras frowned. “Yes, you have told me this multiple times before. But Combeferre, the Republic is an ideal that requires sacrifice. The minutiae of ordinary life stand as nothing before it.”

“’Minutiae’?” Combeferre shook his head, perturbed. “Well. Be that as it may, I suggest you not mention such views to him, for he clearly does not agree. We need to secure a promise of black powder tonight and nothing more. …This is the correct address, is it not?”

They had halted outside a shabby little building, as dirty and broken as the rest of the houses on the street. Before knocking, however, Enjolras turned to face Combeferre, stony-faced.

“Is this the reason you volunteered to accompany me here? You do not trust my judgment on this matter and you are concerned I will offer this man viewpoints too harsh for his tastes?”

“I merely-“ Combeferre sighed. “Multiple viewpoints are an advantage. But of course I trust your judgment. Absolutely.”

As Enjolras continued to scowl, Combeferre voiced a concern only somewhat related to the task at hand. “I will be perfectly honest with you: it disquiets me to see you looking to our cause in every matter, to hold dear nothing besides it, nor take enjoyment in other aspects of life.” He paused. “Or at least what you deem to be trivial.”

Enjolras appeared almost hurt, and a part of Combeferre regretted having said anything. After a moment, however, Enjolras pressed Combeferre’s shoulder gently.

“Who is to say that I don’t?” His grip grew a bit tighter. “Friendship is not outside the cause - not for me. But the theater and New Year’s parties and scientific lectures…” He let his hand fall. “I’m sorry, Combeferre.”

“No, I am. There is no harm done, after all.”

Somewhat mollified, Enjolras turned toward the door to knock. In the short silence that followed, Combeferre raised an eyebrow and whispered, “So. You _do_ enjoy my scientific lectures.”

The corner of Enjolras’ mouth quirked upward, but as the door swung open an instant later, he had no time to answer.  
Monsieur Perrault was a pale and stringy man, with a furtive look about him. He ushered them inside hastily, shutting the door behind them quietly. Combeferre glanced around at the room in which they found themselves.

There was an old moth-eaten bed shoved into one corner of the single room, across from a small stove and a chipped supply of bowls and cups. The floorboards were ancient and loose in places, but were swept clean of dust. In short, it was just this side of squalor. Near the stove, a woman – Perrault’s wife, Combeferre supposed – sat with an infant in her arms and a child of perhaps two or three years playing quietly at her feet. Combeferre and Enjolras gave her swift bows and though she nodded politely, she also shifted in her seat as though she did not quite know what to make of them.

“I am not certain what you two coming here will change,” Monsieur Perrault stated without preamble, indicating to them to sit on the bed, as there were not enough seats for four. They did so. It creaked under their combined weight. “I have made my reservations clear enough.”

“You have not declined the prospect of providing us with supplies, and that indicates – at least to me – that you are still considering doing so. As I have said in my letters, we have the means to make it worthwhile for you. Our fellow, Courfeyrac, and myself have ample funds to compensate you for your labor-“ Here Enjolras glanced at Perrault’s wife and children. “-as well as the risk such an activity imposes on you.”

“It is the _risk_ more than the _cost_ that troubles me, Monsieur.” Perrault’s lips thinned. “I do not lend my services lightly, least of all to _students_. While I have known your friend Monsieur Bahorel for many years, and while he steadfastly guarantees your trustworthiness, I need to be certain that the rewards are worth the risk- and I do not necessarily mean monetary rewards.” He stiffened. “I sympathize with your republican cause – you would not be here if I did not, and I would not have supplied powder to others in the past if I did not – but…” He trailed off. Enjolras eyed him appraisingly for a few seconds, and then turned slightly toward Combeferre, a silent deferral.

“Monsieur,” said Combeferre, treading carefully. “You are right in being cautious with your supplies. I assure you, we do not take our work lightly either. The prospect of revolution, and violent revolution at that, should never be entered into with anything but a full heart and complete consciousness of action. I will be the first to admit that slow progress toward humanity’s liberation appeals to me much more, but our current situation does not allow such a slow pace.” Combeferre glanced at Enjolras. “We too have friends and family and lives and we would not abandon them lightly, but we will give them up for the Republic all the same, if need be. Humanity’s liberation is worth all risk.” He swallowed, and then continued. “But we are not asking you to fight alongside us in the streets or on the barricades. We would welcome you with open arms if ever you wished to do so, of course, but we are not asking such a thing. I, for one, would never blame you for not doing so. The danger of being discovered is still present for you – I won’t deny it – but we are accustomed to operating quietly. What we ask of you should be done with utmost secrecy and discretion.”

“And in any case,” Enjolras added solemnly, “your services, for which Bahorel has wholeheartedly vouched, may very well rescue us in an hour of need. I am sure you would not be surprised to hear that student groups such as ours have a great deal of trouble obtaining the proper materials for revolution. Bahorel has told us that your gunpowder is the best that can be obtained. An ample supply will ensure we do not run short, and a pure stock will prevent misfiring and errors in ignition.”

Perrault did not answer right away, though he appeared somewhat placated by their words. He relaxed a bit in his chair, thoughtful. At length, he raised his head and nodded slowly.

“I… I will reflect on what you have said. I will send word to Bahorel regarding my decision in due time.”

“We thank you for your consideration, Citizen.” And with another short bow, Enjolras and Combeferre departed.

“Do you think it did any good?” Combeferre, now that the meeting was completed, was beginning to harbor some doubts. “I am discomfited placing such pressure on someone so hesitant.”

“The decision is entirely his own. Now that we have discussed this issue in person, he may do as he sees fit,” Enjolras replied. “All we can do is wait for him to give Bahorel his answer. If he refuses outright, we will begin looking elsewhere. I am certain that if we can further secure our contacts at the Polytechnical school, we will be able to obtain black powder of decent quality. Though the Polytechnicians will not be as in need of our money-“

“Please do not compare this endeavor to charity,” Combeferre said miserably. “Causing a person to risk everything they hold dear is never charity.”

“I assure you I was not. It is simply another advantage of obtaining the powder from him specifically.” Enjolras looked over at Combeferre as they walked north past the Hôpital Necker, frowning at his pensive expression. “Do not be troubled, Combeferre. I won’t have it.”

Heat crept up Combeferre’s neck. “I’m all right.”

Enjolras surveyed him critically. “Come upstairs with me. I will make you some tea, and I have several questions regarding that publication you were discussing with Joly after our last meeting.”

 _“Sur l’attraction des spheroids?”_ Combeferre smiled. “Surely physics does not interest you?”

“It interests you.” Enjolras, at the threshold of his building, paused to hold the door open for Combeferre. “If it interests you, then it must be important to me.”

Combeferre, though suddenly a little flustered, led the way up the narrow stairs and began to speak of the progress of science- of electricity, magnetism, and gravitational forces. Enjolras, smiling whether he understood or not, listened and did not interrupt.


	4. Spark

Autumn, 1829.

Summer never failed to pass Paris by too quickly for Combeferre’s liking. The end of the season invariably meant long hours in the dissection room, with blood and stench and cold, guarding cadavers from being stolen, the students utilizing the chill to delay the process of decay. The ever-present desperation to take advantage of the free time before those busy winter days hung over Combeferre, and so he often shut himself away in his flat after rounds and lectures. Regardless of the time of year, studying and political work took precedence, but the extra hours at his disposal in the autumn were set aside for experimenting and replicating discoveries.

He had just set circles of cloth cut from an old rag to soak in a bowl of brine when he heard Enjolras’ footsteps and knock outside of the door. Combeferre did not rise from his seat, instead placing a small wooden platform on his desk and recounting the metallic disks he had managed to procure.

“Come in.”

Upon entering, Enjolras motioned as if to retrieve an item from his satchel, but paused upon catching sight of Combeferre’s project. Combeferre beckoned him over to the desk. Before he could explain what he was doing, Enjolras let out the smallest huff of a laugh. Combeferre frowned at him, surprised, but Enjolras did not appear chastised in the slightest.

“Another scientific endeavor. Every autumn, like clockwork. Of course you will explain every detail to me.” Enjolras smiled in response to Combeferre’s dry expression.

“All right, then. No one can say you didn’t insist upon it. Come closer; the final setup will not be large. I’m building a voltaic pile. Have I told you of this invention before?”

Enjolras approached, leaning over the desk for a closer look. “You must have. It sounds familiar enough.”

“I’m certain you must have heard of it from somewhere, as it was invented several years before we were born. I have never seen one in person but luckily, it’s easy enough to assemble. A zinc disk must be placed at the base, followed by a piece of cloth soaked in a salt solution-“ Combeferre stacked each of these items onto the wooden platform as he spoke. “Then a copper disk on top of that, another piece of cloth, and then several reiterations of that sequence. Simple.”

Combeferre’s assembly was comprised of ten repetitions, finished within seconds. Once done, he looked up at Enjolras, waiting for a reaction. Enjolras glanced at him, and then obligingly examined the stack of metal and cloth for another long moment.

“It is not doing anything.”

“But it _is!_ ” Combeferre could not help grinning in excitement as he picked up two thin metal rods, bent both at a ninety-degree angle, and carefully attached one to each end of the voltaic pile. The tiniest of electrical sparks flowed in the short gap left between the wires.

“Impressive.” Enjolras still sounded uncertain of the magnitude of what he was observing.

“ _Impressive!_ Yes, I should say so. This has led to more innovations than I can count: the decomposition of water into hydrogen and oxygen, the isolation of several new elements-“ Enjolras had broken his scrutiny of the spark to watch Combeferre’s face instead. “There was a remarkable invention at the Royal Institution of London soon after this electrical pile was officially described. A device, much more powerful than this little one here, was assembled using carbon rods in such a way that it produced light! Can you imagine that? _An electrical lamp._ ” Combeferre threw a glance at the candlestick sitting on his desk. “Instead of oil or tallow, lamps could be powered by electricity- perhaps even in the homes of everyday people. Can you picture such a thing? I know this seems like a kind of fantasy or some distant future, but science is all at our fingertips, waiting to be grasped and discovered, and then applied.”

The spark generated by the voltaic pile was starting to fade as the cloth between the metal began to dry. Combeferre, still beaming, tore his eyes away from it to look up at Enjolras. Instead of the usual mixture of patience and subtle amusement he had been expecting to receive, Enjolras was gazing at him pensively. It was enough to startle Combeferre out of his enthusiasm.

“What is the matter?”

Color flooded Enjolras’ cheeks. “Nothing.”

Smiling slightly, Combeferre placed a hand on his arm. “I did not bore you into a stupor with my scientific ramblings, did I?”

“No, never.” Enjolras shook his head as though to clear away hazy thoughts. “Your project will certainly aid in- in _illuminating_ the way to humanity’s progress, will it not?”

“Oh, Enjolras.” Combeferre laughed. “That was _terrible._ ” Enjolras’ expression remained mildly uncomfortable, and he did not respond. Combeferre found himself fidgeting with a scrap of leftover cloth, and pushed it aside.

“You withstood the lecture bravely, my friend- as you have done in the past and as I am sure you will do in the future.” Again, Enjolras said nothing. “Discovery is perpetually in motion; there will be multitudes of opportunities for me to lecture you about science in the future. I am certain you are looking forward to that.”

There was a pause, and a flash of something akin to resolve flickered across Enjolras’ face for a mere instant, though Combeferre could not understand why it did so. “Yes. Of course.”

“Well, that is electricity produced for you. Soon you will have been privy to an extraordinary number of demonstrations. Perhaps you could become my laboratory assistant one day.” Combeferre cleared his throat slightly, then continued: “Was there any specific reason you decided to visit? Anything you needed me to write or read for you?”

“No.” Though Enjolras’ expression had cleared for the most part, he still seemed mildly strained. “I had some free time and was meaning to read, if you are not averse to company at the moment?”

“Of course not. Come, let us sit a little nearer the stove where it’s more comfortable.”

Inwardly bemoaning the increasingly colder days, Combeferre rifled through his trunk and pulled out a warm blanket to drape across their knees. They were sitting very close together on the sofa, and Enjolras shifted almost imperceptibly as Combeferre settled down further and opened his book. After a moment Combeferre glanced at Enjolras, who stiffened and looked quickly away to continue reading the stack of correspondence on his lap. Combeferre relaxed against him affectionately, smiling faintly, though with a vague flutter of unease in his stomach.


	5. Importance

Winter, 1829.

“You are more than welcome to come with me. I hate the idea of you staying alone in Paris over Christmas, and you know my mother and sisters are very fond of you. Who knows? Perhaps my father is also, as _difficult_ as it is to tell.”

Outside, the wind rattled Combeferre’s window, sweeping flurries of snow against the building. The fire had been built to full force for the entire day; now it crackled comfortingly in the stove. Enjolras stood before it, watching Combeferre stuff his warmest clothing into a traveling bag.

“I won’t be alone. Feuilly is staying here as well after all, as he declined Courfeyrac’s offer of a Christmas in Provence yet again. The day will be spent very pleasantly, I assure you.”

“But- Annonay will be a bit warmer than here. We could take my sisters out to search for insect specimens if you’d like; they always _love_ that.”

However much he may have missed his family, several weeks apart from Enjolras suddenly seemed far too long. But Enjolras was smiling slightly, unable to be swayed, and so Combeferre resigned himself to a lonelier holiday than he had anticipated. He looked down and placed the book Enjolras had bought him for Christmas at the top of his belongings. “Is there… any reason you do not wish to come with me?”

Enjolras’ smiled faltered, but he put a reassuring hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “Nothing with which you need to concern yourself. It is only that I need a bit of time alone to- well. I need some time to work. Bahorel says Perrault seems to be nearing the point of allowing us to purchase his black powder. He has already made a sizable stock, apparently, but he has not promised it to us quite yet. It seems only a matter of time and I would much rather be at hand for that situation than in the south. That is all.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose it would be difficult to relocate powder when you are not physically present.”

“Yes, it would be. But you needn’t look so despondent. I’ll see you in a few short weeks- do have a good time.”

“And you,” said Combeferre. He closed his bag and shouldered it, peeved despite Enjolras’ valid reason for turning down the invitation. “Well. Write to me while I’m away, won’t you? Tell me what you and Feuilly do for Christmas and I’ll tell you how many times my mother asks about you- and how many times my father does not.”

“Of course.” Enjolras’ expression was oddly distant while he extinguished the fire and they made their way downstairs. Assuming Enjolras was going to accompany him to the carriage, Combeferre was surprised when Enjolras briefly gripped his shoulder instead. His cheeks seemed rather pinker than usual, but it may have been the bite of the winter air.

“You- you test my resolve.” He did not quite meet Combeferre’s eyes. “You know there is nothing I would like better than to spend my holidays with you, but-“ He swallowed, almost painfully. “I do not wish to lie to you. It is imperative that I remain alone for a short while. Besides the business with the black powder, I need to… reflect. Please have a safe journey. Give your family my regards.”

Combeferre’s words stuck in his throat before he could surmount his confusion. “I- Yes. All right.”

He wanted to object, wanted to tell Enjolras again to just come with him, that there was no reason to cloister himself away, but Enjolras gave his shoulder an awkward sort of pat and walked back toward his building, without looking behind.

 

* * *

 

The weeks Combeferre spent in Annonay were pleasant, if relatively uneventful. His mother did not quite fuss, but she did frequently encourage him to take extra helpings at meals. She made it a point to discuss his studies with him, and often brought up this-or-that publication, both scientific and political, engaging him in conversation late into the evenings. Marie-Anne and Émilie were keen to observe his replication of Volta’s electrical pile, and Combeferre repeated the demonstration to the delight of both of his sisters. His father worked on accounts and inventories for the family paper business, shut away in the study, but would emerge to read in the sitting room with Combeferre every so often. The silence between them was never quite comfortable.

It was all as agreeable as it possibly could be, and yet Combeferre’s thoughts continually strayed to Paris. The afternoon of his arrival, Combeferre had sent a short letter to Enjolras, assuring him that the journey by diligence had gone smoothly enough and asking for news. The time had long passed since the letter should have reached Paris, and as each day went by with no response Combeferre grew more and more nettled. The letter or the reply may have gotten mislaid, Combeferre reasoned; he attempted to convince himself to be indifferent. His mother often shot him questioning glances whenever he would lapse into troubled thought, but he did not want her to ask what the matter was, partially in fear of being unable to explain.

All he wanted, he told himself, was to regain some sense of normalcy- to be back in his rooms, sitting near the warm stove, with Enjolras reading by his side. At the same time he felt a certain sense of trepidation, heightened whenever Combeferre thought back to the nature of their parting, the tension during their discussion before meeting Perrault, and other, smaller instances. Whenever these fits of excessive introspection overtook him, Combeferre endeavored to distract himself.

There was no sense to any of it.

 

* * *

 

The porter was absent from Combeferre’s building when he returned to Paris, tired and thankful the long carriage journey was finally over. He was therefore required to haul his bag up the four flights of stairs himself. It was slow going; his bag was considerably heavier than it had been setting out, as his mother had insisted he take with him several books that he absolutely must read. Upon entering his rooms, Combeferre made to shove his bag aside to be unpacked later, wanting nothing more than to collapse on the sofa for a much-needed rest. Instead, something out of the corner of his eye made him pause.

A hatbox, colorful and wrapped with a large ribbon, sat upon his desk. After closing the door and walking up to it, Combeferre noticed the ribbon was inexpertly bound, with a slip of paper, folded in half, tucked beneath it. With some confusion, he pulled it out and unfolded it. It was a short note, written in Enjolras’ cramped and pointed cursive:

_Something of importance; something I hope you will accept and find of use to you._

The word ‘importance’ was crossed out once, but then rewritten as if Enjolras had meant it after all. Combeferre frowned, setting the paper aside as he untied the ribbon and slowly lifted the lid off of the box. Inside the hatbox was a hat, which was simultaneously unsurprising and perplexing. The top hat was of decent quality, to be sure, but Enjolras put no thought into fashion and perpetually ignored Courfeyrac’s laments about the poor quality and dark colors of his clothing. But then Combeferre lifted the hat in order to get a better look at it, and the reason for its presence became clear.

With a muffled _thunk_ two objects, carefully hidden inside of the hat, tipped over and fell against the bottom of the box. They were a pair of pistols, percussion cap, the metal mechanisms shining in the waning light. Attempting to ignore the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, Combeferre took one of the pistols in his hands and turned it over, examining the weapon carefully. It was brand new and superbly crafted.

Whether this was another Christmas present or a strange apology for turning down the invitation to Annonay or for neglecting to write, Combeferre did not know. Surely, if Enjolras had felt he owed Combeferre an apology, he would have simply done so in person. Combeferre picked up the note again and reread it several more times, as if he could extract some further meaning from the words, but no other explanation occurred to him.

Aware of an uncomfortably tight feeling in his chest, Combeferre hid the pistols away under the hat once more, somewhat defeated. He would speak to Enjolras about it, he resolved- as soon as he could think of what precisely to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that Combeferre's mother is very interested in the sciences and passed this interest to her children. In case you were wondering, she named them after some of her favorite scientists in the 18th century: Jacques-Étienne Montgolfier (also from Annonay), Marie-Anne Paulze Lavoisier, and Émilie du Châtelet.


	6. Destabilization

Spring, 1830.

The shift in the people and the city was almost as marked as that in the weather; the atmosphere was heating up in every sense of the word. _Something_ was going to happen soon, and Combeferre was by turns anxious and impatient to see Paris’ political sparks ignite. Each member of Les Amis de l’ABC had thrown himself into their work with more enthusiasm and resolve than ever before, and their society had managed to stockpile an impressive collection of supplies and weaponry. The greatest of these small victories came in the form of Monsieur Perrault delivering a sizable amount of black powder to them, at long last. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had safely stored the supplies in Enjolras’ room - with his landlady none the wiser. Meanwhile, firearms of all types were collected and placed at the ready in Jean Prouvaire’s sizable flat. If there was to be an armed uprising, the danger of running short on supplies was minimal.

Despite the ever-increasing political tension, not everyone could be involved in the most exciting tasks. Publications were still required to persuade those still unsure of their course of action should the city break out in revolution. Enjolras had been asked to write a few articles for an underground newspaper, published under a pen name and distributed by an adjacent republican group befriended by Bahorel. And so after a long day of lectures, Combeferre found himself sitting in a dusty corner of the Corinthe, parsing the meaning of Enjolras’ metaphors. It was dusk and Combeferre, worn out and mildly irritable, was keen to finish the work. The article was already eloquent, striking, though perhaps it contained a few phrases needing some alterations - not everyone could follow Enjolras’ abstractions. Nevertheless, the piece would certainly inspire.

Combeferre watched Enjolras read over the words yet again and fidgeted in his seat, hoping to relieve some of the rigidity in his shoulders. He stilled as Enjolras leaned closer to him, brow creased. With the tip of his pen, Enjolras pointed to a sentence he had crossed out and rewritten several times, silently asking whether the newest revision was coherent. Combeferre edged away on the pretense of getting a clearer look at the writing, and frowned at it.

“The newspaper should be accessible to all, regardless of education. Clarify that analogy a bit more and it should be understandable.”

With a slow nod, Enjolras bent over the table and continued to write. In the following silence, with nothing to do except read over Enjolras’ shoulder, Combeferre’s barely-suppressed pique came to the forefront of his mind yet again. He steeled himself, though he could hardly explain why.

“Ah… by the way. I had been meaning to thank you again- for the pistols. They are… very nice.” It was not quite what he had wanted to say, and he cringed internally. Enjolras waved a hand without looking away from his paper- an almost dismissive acknowledgement. “I just- why did you give them to me?”

This made Enjolras pause, his hand hovering over the page, though he still did not look up. Combeferre swallowed, perturbed, a part of him wondering why it was so important that he know the reason behind this gift. Surely it was simply a present, no different than those they had exchanged before. _Why did it matter?_

After a moment, Enjolras slowly sat back in his chair and fixed his now wary gaze on Combeferre’s face. “I don’t understand what you mean,” he said, though Combeferre had the distinct impression he did, somehow.

“It’s only that- those pistols are of an exceptional quality- and are entirely new. The craftsmanship is excellent. Surely they were expensive, and the money would have been better spent elsewhere.”

Enjolras shifted in his seat slightly; he seemed to tighten his grip on his pen. “I disagree.” He did not elaborate and Combeferre motioned to reach out a hand to ease his apparent discomfort, but stopped short, folding his hands in his lap instead.

“I like the gift- I _do_ , I promise you that. It’s simply that you must have spent a great deal of money, and it must have been incredibly difficult to find pistols of that make and quality- nor must it have been easy to buy them without arousing suspicion.”

The silence that followed weighed heavily on them both, though Combeferre, at least, tried so hard not to acknowledge it. Finally, Enjolras straightened in his chair and looked Combeferre in the eye, steady, thoughts flickering behind his stoicism- and for the first time in his life, Combeferre refused to decipher them. He became distracted, momentarily, by the lamplight playing off Enjolras’ hair, turning the yellow strands golden.

“Worthwhile endeavors are rarely easy.”

Combeferre drew in a deep breath, chest tight, unsuccessfully trying to will the tension inside of him to dissipate. He could not even begin to fathom how to respond.

They sat there for another minute or so, silently looking at each other. Enjolras’ expression was so severe that Combeferre wanted desperately to move away, but he remained all the same, throat constricted and heart thundering until, on some fleeting impulse, he leaned forward towards Enjolras. Immediately, Enjolras broke the gaze, eyes dropping down to his writing.

“The article is complete, I believe. It simply needs to be written out a final time, and then I will give it to Bahorel’s contact tomorrow for printing and distribution. Unfortunately, I’ve run out of paper here and will need to return to my rooms.” He rose from his seat, swiftly packed away his belongings and slung his satchel over his shoulder. Combeferre’s hand twitched again, this time toward his own bag - which Enjolras _knew_ contained more than enough extra paper for the finalized article – but he stopped himself once more.

Enjolras looked up at him again. He seemed weary and – Combeferre frowned when he realized it – perhaps a little sad.

“Good night. I will see you tomorrow.”

They might have walked home together, but Combeferre did not remind him and merely watched him go, remaining at their table in an uneasy silence. A full quarter hour passed, during which Combeferre tried and failed to focus on rereading a few anatomy notes, before he finally gathered his belongings and followed Enjolras out of the door.


	7. Ignition

Summer, 1830.

It seemed as though Paris remained on edge for ages, and the agitation in the populace only increased with each passing day. Workers were being dismissed from their jobs with alarming frequency, and businesses closed up with hardly any notice. Between full days of study and political planning all night, Combeferre found himself constantly busy. The excess of work had an additional benefit: it was easy to avoid speaking to Enjolras too personally. Their conversations, though as long as ever, were consumed by planning now, and though the uneasy tension persisted, fluttering beneath every interaction between them, it was simple enough to push aside for the time being. There were more urgent matters to attend to at the moment- ones that did not involve introspection.

Les Amis de l’ABC had not missed any of the signs; the political climate was nearing a breaking point. They met with increasing frequency, writing and gathering information and conversing with other groups. Large factions of workers had begun to form, angry and desperate after being thrown out of their jobs. However, their society did not suffer a personal blow until the day Feuilly wandered into the backroom of the Musain several hours too early.

“Oh hullo, Feuilly. Shouldn’t you be at work?” Joly had paused his game of dominoes with Grantaire to look up at Feuilly, brows knitted.

Feuilly shook his head stiffly, avoiding eye contact with anyone as he slowly lowered himself into a chair. Combeferre, sitting in a corner with Courfeyrac and Enjolras, glanced up from the article he was drawing up for the printer’s, despite the press having been cut off that very day. Though he often appeared tired, Feuilly seemed to be in a state of shock. Upon noticing this as well, Courfeyrac rose immediately and strode over to him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“What happened?” It was plain from the tone of Courfeyrac’s voice that he already knew what was wrong.

Feuilly shook his head, almost in disbelief. “The workshop- the owner has-“ He swallowed and took a steadying breath. “The atelier was shut down- without warning, without any kind of notice. All of us arrived there this morning and the building was locked, without any trace of the owner.” He ran a hand across his forehead. “I’m not certain why I am so surprised. This sort of thing has been happening for weeks; it was only a matter of time before it happened to us as well.”

“There’s no need to worry. You have all of us to help you.” Though given the early hour their entire group had yet arrived, all present plainly understood Courfeyrac’s gesture around the room.

Feuilly’s brow wrinkled in a mild frown. “There are scores of workers in a worse state than me. There is no need to go out of your way-“ Courfeyrac’s mildly hurt expression made him trail off.

“You are our friend- that is why we care about you. We will not let you starve nor go without a roof over your head. Meanwhile, we shall work for better conditions for _all_ citizens, as we always have done. All right?”

Though his face remained drawn, Feuilly managed a faint smile. “Yes… of course. Understood.”

 

* * *

 

The following evening, crowds of unemployed and incensed workers began to form, growing over the following day until fighting broke out in the city. Still in his flat, Combeferre could hear rather than see the source of the violence, though small mobs occasionally ran through the Rue des Marais. The streets were filled with noise.

Night fell, the rioting continued, and still there was no word from Enjolras nor any of the others regarding what action should be taken. The streetlamps nearby had been smashed hours ago, and Combeferre risked himself long enough to slip out of his flat into the darkness and then up to Enjolras’ apartment. To his dismay, Enjolras was nowhere to be found. Combeferre wracked his brain, trying to think of where Enjolras might be and after grabbing his pistols, ran to the Musain and then north to the Corinthe, finding no one. In the end, he returned to his rooms, frustrated, and waited for a message.

The following morning, on July the twenty-eighth, Combeferre had begun drafting a hurried note to leave with the portress next door, demanding that Enjolras contact him at once should he return, when a sudden roar of shouting on his street startled him out of his writing. There was a sudden pounding at the door before he could even glance out the window, causing him to upend the inkbottle in surprise. Courfeyrac burst in a moment later, his face flushed with excitement.

“What on _earth_ are you doing? Stop writing and come quickly! Enjolras has just sent word-“

“What? Where has he-“

“He was caught in the fray on the way back from the Girard’s print shop and has been unable to retrieve his weapons until now. He met up with Feuilly and a group of workers as he was running back to his room. They are building _barricades,_  Combeferre! _Stop writing at once and hurry!_ Get your weapons- our time has finally arrived!”

Combeferre snatched up his pistols and they were off, tearing through the streets, whipping through crowds of marching workers and across Pont Neuf, Courfeyrac leading the way to the Rue Boucher. They skidded to a halt and as he struggled to catch his breath, Combeferre took stock of the sight before him.

There, dominating half the street, a barricade was taking form. Paving stones already stretched from the buildings to the left and right, forming a sturdy base. In the center, a pile atop the stones grew steadily: a mound of broken furniture and carts and barrels, fitted together into a structure both cohesive and haphazard at once. Feuilly was at the center of the scene, his ordinarily even voice ringing out from where he stood, directing the construction alongside a man Combeferre did not recognize.

Momentarily stunned by his surroundings, by the inevitable barricade which had finally become reality, he did not realize someone was calling his name until Courfeyrac, still beside him, nudged him with an elbow. Enjolras was striding toward them.

He had taken off his hat and coat, hair flying, face free of severity and instead alight with hope and promise- and in that single sharp instant, Combeferre was struck with an inexorable clarity. He knew, chest suddenly aching with tension, why the past few months had been so difficult- why every interaction with Enjolras had left him feeling so terribly lost. The realization, at long last, filled him with dizzy happiness and a peculiar sort of terror, and he fumbled for Enjolras’ hand when it was stretched out to him in greeting. Heart thudding more than uneasily, Combeferre took a breath and forced himself back into the present once more. The world around him had not changed, though Combeferre was _certain_ it could not have possibly stayed the same, somehow. Courfeyrac was still by his side, unusually serious, and Enjolras was speaking.

“…Feuilly has informed me of the situation. I have, in turn, sent messages to the rest of the Society to join us here. You are the first to respond. That man there-“ Enjolras turned and indicated with a nod the worker who stood beside Feuilly. “-is a bricklayer, called Allard. He is one of Feuilly’s contacts and has been out of work for some time. He is the leader here. I need to return to building, but the two of you should follow any instructions he has to give you.” And with a press to Courfeyrac’s arm and a small smile at Combeferre, he turned and strode back to the barricade.

The construction nearly complete and already handled by enough people, Allard sent Combeferre and Courfeyrac to the side of the street enclosed by the barricade to make cartridges. Barrels of gunpowder, much of which was undoubtedly supplied by Monsieur Perrault, were already well stocked against the buildings. They introduced themselves to the workers already present, and then began their task in silence.

Every once in a while, Courfeyrac would shoot a concerned glance in Combeferre’s direction, but Combeferre only bent his head and continued working. With practice, his motions became automatic. Despite this, he strove to keep his thoughts on the situation at hand and not on Enjolras, who was reinforcing the barricade some meters away.

Eventually Courfeyrac, on the pretext of asking Combeferre for more powder, bent in close and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Are you all right?”

Combeferre grimaced; keeping anything from Courfeyrac was a useless endeavor. Following a short pause, he nodded but did not look up from what he was doing.

Courfeyrac continued, quietly: “You know, my friend, we’ve spoken so much of barricades and revolution- always coming, always on the horizon but never here, not in the present. It almost seems like a strange dream that it is happening at last.”

Again, Combeferre nodded and again, Courfeyrac continued to speak, more gently still.

“We will need to have our wits about us, won’t we Combeferre? We mustn’t let ourselves become distracted by anything, any stray contemplation, whether now or in the midst of battle should it come our way, lest we risk injury- or worse. Am I not correct to thinking so?”

“Yes.” Combeferre’s voice wavered slightly. “Yes. There- there is a time and a place for everything, and now is the time to direct all thought toward our ideals, whatever the outcome may be. You are right.” With difficulty, he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and raised his head at last. Courfeyrac was looking at him with sympathy.

“Of course, this isn’t to say distractions need to be – or _should_ be – set aside forever. When our revolution is won, there will be time for the rest- what joys may be open to us afterwards. Only, now we must focus on the present.” And with a final squeeze of Combeferre’s shoulder, Courfeyrac went back to his cartridges.

In the following hours, more members of their society arrived and were set to work. Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire carried in a plethora of weapons hidden on their persons. Most were decade-old firearms that were useful nonetheless, and they cheerfully handed them out to as many people as they could. A while later, Joly and Bossuet joined them, clambering over the completed barricade, bearing both a small stock of food and a sheepish explanation that Grantaire, drunk in his rooms, would perhaps be coming later on.

With the street well manned, with the barricade built and stocked with cartridges for the moment, all that was left to do was wait. Combeferre stationed himself between Courfeyrac and Joly at one side of the street, sitting on a barrel and willing his eyes not to stray to Enjolras, standing in readiness at the center.

 

* * *

 

The day wore onward and though shouting and gunfire could be heard on neighboring streets, out of sight save for the haze of smoke curling skyward here and there, their barricade remained quiet. Combeferre restlessly checked the mechanisms on his pistols, half-listening to Bossuet’s quips and Bahorel’s subsequent booming laughter, sometimes glancing at Enjolras, still at his post at the top of the barricade.

Eventually Enjolras, anxious beneath his still air and seeking to occupy himself, climbed to the ground and made his way past the group of his friends with a mind to construct more cartridges. Though a part of him thought better of it, Combeferre rose from where he was seated and wandered over to the supplies as well. Courfeyrac’s eyes followed them, though he did not intervene. The press of tension inside Combeferre’s chest returned as Enjolras raised his head to look at him.

“I suppose it is safe to assume you have already discovered the best and most efficient way of assembling these,” Enjolras said mildly, indicating the cartridges with a wave of his hand.

A small, forced laugh was all Combeferre could manage in response. It didn’t seem to be what Enjolras had been expecting, as his smile immediately faded.

“I’m sorry. I was only-“

“No. I know. It is-“ Combeferre stopped speaking. Now was not the time- even though Enjolras offered him another smile and pressed his hand, warmth in his eyes, encouraging. And so, he did not continue, and simply tightened his grip on Enjolras’ hand for a moment before releasing it.

“You have already made a great deal of cartridges,” Enjolras said at length, surveying the piled supplies around himself.

“Yes.” Combeferre cleared his throat. “We are ready if the barricade is attacked. Speaking of which- don’t you find it strange that the area around us is so quiet? I would have thought we should have seen some fighting by now.”

“It's only a matter of time,” Enjolras replied. “The workers have been speaking of the possibility of capturing the Louvre and the Palais des Tuileries. At least in the case of the former, we are in a prime location to defend those attempting to take it.”

“Anyone approaching the Louvre from the east may very well come across us.”

“Exactly. We will likely not take part in its capture, but we are ideally placed for shielding our fellows against anyone who wishes to stop them. If our side captures as many key locations as possible, but especially the Hôtel de Ville, victory is certainly ours.” Enjolras smiled again. “More barricades are being built by the hour. We shall have a decent force against the enemy.” He paused, and his expression softened into something gentler. “You should get some rest, my friend. We all need to be at our strongest when the fighting is upon us.”

“By that logic, I am not the only one who should rest.” Combeferre took Enjolras’ arm. “Come on.”

The pair found a small alcove at one end of the barricade and curled up on the paving stones together, backs against the building. Once it was fully dark and the street lit up by the insurgents’ torches, Combeferre dozed lightly, leaning against Enjolras’ side despite the heat of the evening. Occasionally Enjolras would shift slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. Fatigue softening Combeferre’s resolve, he eventually wrapped an arm around Enjolras, holding him close enough that Combeferre’s nose was pressed to his collar. Enjolras stilled. After a moment Combeferre felt the brush of fingers in his hair, stroking gently.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre’s voice was very quiet, as delicate as possible.

“Yes?”

“The note you left me- when you gave me the pistols. You said you were giving me something of importance, something you hoped I would accept. Did you mean the pistols… or something else?”

“I… I had meant something else.” Enjolras drew in a breath, barely audible. “Up until a few months ago, I would have thought it trivial… but I was wrong.”

“I think I understand.” Combeferre stroked his side gently, relieved when he felt the tension leave Enjolras’ frame.

Enjolras turned his head to press his lips to Combeferre’s temple, but did not complete the action.

 

* * *

 

In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had risen over the buildings, Combeferre woke abruptly to shouting and gunshots just over the barricade. In an instant, he and Enjolras scrambled to their feet, Enjolras grabbing his double-barreled rifle and Combeferre, after ensuring his pistols were secure, snatching up a nearby musket. The barricade was seeing action at last.

The hours of silent waiting before this point seemed an eternity compared to the tumult that followed. Workers running east to the Louvre and the Tuileries were helped over the barricade while those opposing the insurgents were quickly picked off. Smoke stung Combeferre’s eyes and throat as he tried to find a secure post on the barricade that would allow him a better shot. He lost track of time as he loaded and reloaded his weapons.

At one point, he could not see anyone he knew around him until Joly scrambled up next to him, blood running down one side of his face but otherwise no worse for wear. Together they brought down a man wielding an old gun from the National Guard. He fell nearly on top of them, breaking the butt of Combeferre’s musket. Combeferre took up the man’s weapon instead, stifling shock and revulsion at what they had just done.

“The Louvre has been taken!” Allard shouted from somewhere behind them. They whipped around and Combeferre, with blinding relief, spotted Enjolras and Courfeyrac some distance away, scratched and dirty but relatively unharmed. “The Louvre has been taken and the Palais des Tuileries is next! Come, we must-“ but before he could finish, a gunshot tore through the side of his chest and he fell.

With surprising quickness, Joly leapt down from his post and ran to Allard, weaving through fighting workers, Combeferre just behind him. But Allard was dead before they reached him, and there was nothing to be done that could help. Joly gave Combeferre one grave look, and the two returned to fighting.

Time stretched on, and Combeferre was beginning to feel the wear of hours of exertion. In the early afternoon Feuilly, who had been running back and forth between the barricade and the nearby locations set for capture, called that the Tuileries had been taken. A few hours more and their opponents were thinning out, the fighting moving to other parts of the city. Enjolras found Combeferre and they stood together silently, listening to the now distant gunfire and shouting somewhere to the east. Once more Feuilly returned to the barricade, out of breath and eyes alight.

“We have done it! The Hôtel de Ville is ours!”


	8. Waiting

Summer, 1830.

A crowd remained gathered outside the Hôtel de Ville for the next several days, everyone listening desperately for information. The principal members of Les Amis did not waste any time before stationing themselves amongst them. By some miracle, they had all escaped the violence with only a few minor injuries.

On the second of August, they were greeted with the news that Charles X had stepped down from the throne. The provisional government, installed on the final day of fighting, was now apparently deciding what steps should subsequently be taken. Too fervently excited to return to their respective lodgings, the group decided that the logical course of action was to keep watch in shifts. This allowed those not on duty to rest in Prouvaire’s rooms, which were the closest to the Hôtel de Ville.

“They are deciding upon how best to install a Republic. This is it, my friends! The moment is here!” Though he had been awake for hours, Courfeyrac paced excitedly up and down Prouvaire’s disordered sitting room, floorboards creaking underfoot. He, Combeferre, Enjolras, and Feuilly had just been relieved from a twelve-hour period of lingering near the Hôtel de Ville by Bossuet, Joly, Prouvaire, and Bahorel. Grantaire, it seemed, was still making himself scarce.

Presently, Combeferre watched Courfeyrac’s movements with a strange mixture of exhaustion and hope, unsure if the latter emotion was wise. They had all been in a similar state for days, going over the entire affair in their minds, giving voice to only a few of these concerns.

It was lucky that Prouvaire’s rooms were being used to house them while they were not occupied with waiting at the Hôtel de Ville; there were enough curious artifacts there to keep one distracted for days. Motes of dust floated through the air, landing on faded drapery and rugs, on cracked old vases filled with wilted peonies and dead cypress. Antique volumes lined the shelves and Combeferre had even found, tucked away in a dark corner, a few framed butterfly specimens, ancient and crumbling. It was astounding that Prouvaire managed to complete any work at all, with such clutter pressing in on every side. For now, however, it kept Combeferre from becoming too lost inside his own anxious thoughts.

Feuilly and Enjolras, unlike the other two, did not remain standing. Under normal circumstances Feuilly would surely have been deep into one of Prouvaire’s books at this point, but fatigue had taken hold against his will. He had merely given the titles a cursory glance before curling himself at one end of the moth-eaten divan and immediately falling asleep. Enjolras appeared to take no notice of the eccentricities of his surroundings and instead sat on the other end of the sofa, overcome with stillness. Combeferre, if no one else, was aware of the reverie behind that silence. After a while, Enjolras folded his arms and dozed, though he did not appear to be at peace.

The creak of floorboards tapered off, and Combeferre snapped out of his contemplation of Enjolras. Courfeyrac was watching him meaningfully. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then shook his head.

“We should follow the lead of these two fellows here and get some rest as well, shouldn’t we, Combeferre? Overthrowing a monarchy is a taxing business.”

Tension creeping up his spine, Combeferre could only nod. Courfeyrac smiled sympathetically and directed him to the center of the divan, taking the less comfortable desk chair for himself. Though he closed his eyes and sunk down in an attempt to sleep, Combeferre could feel Courfeyrac’s gaze upon himself. He did not respond to it, but after a moment he heard Courfeyrac settle down in his seat and whisper.

“Don’t worry.”

 

* * *

 

The crowd outside the Hôtel de Ville had grown considerably when Combeferre, Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly had ventured out to relieve their friends of watch duty on the ninth of August. On their way to find the rest of their group, they passed clumps of workers in the assemblage speaking in exited tones, anxiously and earnestly speculating. A tremor of anticipation washed over them.

“There is a rumor – though we do not know who started it, mind you – that the new government has been formed,” Joly told them as soon as the group had reunited. He pointedly ignored a group of disgruntled bourgeois to the right. “Today may be the day! We might as well all stay here for it, don’t you think?”

“We should all be together,” Jean Prouvaire agreed. “It won’t be much longer now.”

Combeferre craned his neck to look over the crowd at the edifice before them. The doors of the Hôtel de Ville remained closed, and as of yet there was no sign of official activity around them. Beside their group, the cluster of bourgeois grew louder, their disparaging comments directed toward a few nearby workers becoming more heated.

“Ignore them,” Enjolras said quietly. “The dissatisfaction of those who are comfortable under tyranny can only bode well for us.”

The argument, however, somehow escalated into a fistfight in the blink of an eye, scattering the crowd nearby and knocking into those too slow to get out of the way. Courfeyrac, standing nearest to the fray, took a step forward in an attempt to pull the men off each other. One of the workers struggled in Courfeyrac’s hands and the man on the ground beneath him pulled something from his frockcoat.

A gunshot rang out, causing the surrounding crowd to start and very nearly panic. Courfeyrac staggered sideways and Feuilly caught him to prevent him from falling to the ground. He was clutching at his left arm, pale and breathless with shock, and upon seeing blood spreading from under his hand, the others rushed forward.

 _“He needs help!”_ Joly cried as Bahorel and Prouvaire did their best to subdue the fight around them and wrestle a pistol from the hand of one of the bourgeois. “Combeferre-“

“I live nearer here than you- and I have ample supplies in my rooms.” Combeferre wrapped an arm around Courfeyrac to steady him. He was now gasping and trembling in pain, his sleeve soaked in blood. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.” Combeferre’s words were directed as much to their group as they were to Courfeyrac himself. “Patching you up won’t take but a moment; let’s go now…”

As he began to shepherd Courfeyrac away from the crowd, Enjolras took a few steps forward and gripped Combeferre’s shoulder.

“Shall I-“

“Everything will be fine,” Combeferre repeated. “I can manage easily. You should stay and hear any announcements; you may be needed.”

Enjolras drew back and gave a short nod, very stiff. “If there is any news, I will find you as soon as I can.”

With a quick nod of his own, Combeferre turned away and, with slow and careful progress, led Courfeyrac away from the bustle and noise and to the south across the Seine.


	9. Aftermath

Summer, 1830.

“Ow, _OW!_ Oh _Christ,_ that _hurts!”_

“Sorry, I just- hold still for me for one moment- _please Courfeyrac!”_

The blood seeping from Courfeyrac’s arm had already stained a handful of linens bright red, though Combeferre’s hands were steady as he pressed yet another cloth to the wound. Courfeyrac grimaced and shuddered in pain, but did not pull his arm away. A few minutes of placing pressure on the injury passed, during which neither man spoke, and the bleeding slowed enough for Combeferre to carefully wipe around the area and examine it carefully.

“Clean entry. It seems only to need the bullet removed and a few stitches. Simple enough to manage,” Combeferre muttered. He glanced up at Courfeyrac and was met with a wide-eyed stare. Combeferre briefly admonished himself; the impersonal, clinical detachment so encouraged at the medical school was not appropriate here. He pressed Courfeyrac’s hand. “You don’t have to worry, I promise you- though you may want to take some laudanum before I begin. I’ll pour you a dose now-“

_“No!”_

“No?” Combeferre frowned. “If I don’t do this-“

“Do it!” Courfeyrac was still shaking slightly with pain. “Do it, but without the laudanum.” Combeferre stared at him.

“Courfeyrac, it will hurt _much more than it does even now.”_ But Courfeyrac remained resolute.

“I _know_ that, but I need to keep my wits about me. _Listen!_ Enjolras may be here with a report at any time. I _refuse_ to be drugged and half asleep and risk not hearing the news that we have a _republic_ at last! We’ve _won,_ Combeferre! I’ll take the laudanum after he lets us know what’s happened. I just-“ Courfeyrac swallowed. “I just want to be awake enough to hear it from Enjolras officially. I want to remember that moment for years to come. Please.”

Throat tight, Combeferre found himself giving a small nod of assent. “Very well. I cannot refuse a request like that. But we had better get you ready for that big moment, hadn’t we?” He retrieved his medical bag from beside the wardrobe. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Courfeyrac relaxed. “I trust that you will.”

Even as his heart pounded in his throat, Combeferre’s hands remained steady as he assembled his materials on the bedside table and carefully helped Courfeyrac roll onto his side. Courfeyrac drew in a breath, crumpling the blankets up around his face, and Combeferre squeezed his hand in a small offer of comfort. He reached for a set of forceps.

“Ready?”

Courfeyrac nodded and Combeferre, with as much slow precision as he could muster, held Courfeyrac’s arm steady with one hand and lowered the forceps into the wound with the other. Through some stroke of providence, he was able to grasp the bullet firmly on the first try and slowly pulled it out in its entirety. Courfeyrac stifled a cry into the blankets and Combeferre released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

“All right, the worst is over. After a few stitches, it will all be done. Relax your arm a bit more, please; you are doing just fine.”

As the wound was not large, the stitches were finished quickly enough. Courfeyrac grew paler but did not make another sound and afterwards, much to Combeferre’s incredulity, he offered a wan smile.

“Well. That was not so terrible.”

Combeferre could only smile back shakily, and rose to wash the blood from his hands and offer Courfeyrac a clean washcloth and nightshirt. All that was left to do after helping Courfeyrac change was wait.

Fidgety, Combeferre went out into the sitting room and glanced out the window for any sign of Enjolras, walked back to sit by Courfeyrac’s side for a moment and then repeated the process. With a grimace, Courfeyrac propped himself up on the pillows and watched Combeferre’s progress wearily.

“Stop that- you will wear a path in your floorboards. Enjolras will be fine.”

Frowning, Combeferre stopped his pacing and turned to face Courfeyrac. “I never said anything about Enjolras.” He received a withering look in return.

“You are both _infuriatingly_ obtuse,” said Courfeyrac, though as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he appeared to regret the sharpness of his tone. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. Being shot does not do wonders for my mood, as it turns out.”

“It’s quite all right.” Combeferre sat at the edge of the bed, trying to remain calm. “You are not wrong, in any case.”

“Hmm.” Courfeyrac eyed him appraisingly. “You know, you might _stop_ being infuriatingly obtuse. The revolution is over, and we can finally become distracted by things that are not our ideals… or perhaps different ideals. It is merely a suggestion.”

“You need to rest. Hush.” Courfeyrac obeyed, but his lips twitched upward into another smile, still drawn but tinged with mischief. Combeferre drew the bedclothes up around him and he eventually nodded off lightly, despite the pain he was surely still experiencing.

At long last, after the sun had begun to set and Combeferre had lit candles and adjusted Courfeyrac’s pillows for the countless time, the door swung open with such force that both men started. Enjolras strode over the threshold, slamming the door behind him, shoulders stiff, blazing and furious and for one terrible moment, Combeferre was afraid of him.

Still in bed and unable to see into the sitting room, Courfeyrac raised himself on an elbow, paling further. “What? What is it?”

Combeferre drew back as Enjolras entered the bedroom. The sight of Courfeyrac, exhausted and in pain, seemed to subdue Enjolras slightly. He halted at the foot of the bed.

“Courfeyrac. You are all right, then?”

“Fine, fine,” said Courfeyrac. “I would be better if you would tell us just what on earth is going on out there. What is happening? Do we have a republic? Is it really true?”

The disdainful scowl on Enjolras’ face quieted Courfeyrac, though it was not directed at him. “No.” Enjolras almost shook with fury. “We were betrayed; our revolution was stolen. There are to be no elections, no consolation to us. Louis-Phillip d’Orléans has been declared king instead.”

The silence that met Enjolras’ words was horrible. Trembling slightly on his good arm, Courfeyrac said, “I don’t _understand_. So… all of our work, all of our planning and fighting merely- merely replaced _one_ king with _another_.”

The remaining fierce energy in Enjolras dissipated, like a candle flickering before it was extinguished, and observing such a reaction from him was nearly as discomfiting as seeing him enraged. “That appears to be the case. Yes.” Courfeyrac pressed his lips together and lowered himself back down on to the bed.

“I… I think I’m ready for that laudanum now.”

Enjolras and Combeferre stayed by Courfeyrac’s bedside as he drank the tincture and curled miserably under the covers, the drug allowing him to drift off easily enough, and they remained for several minutes after, still in silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Combeferre saw Enjolras turn toward him slightly, and Combeferre cleared his throat painfully. Only now had his hands begun to tremble.

“You- you may stay here if you like. I have an extra nightshirt you can borrow- ah. You know that already. I know you could just go back to your place but-“

“No.” Enjolras reached out a hand briefly but then let it fall again. “I will stay. Of course I’ll stay.”


	10. Tomorrow

Summer, 1830.

The street outside was completely dark and silent, in heavy contrast with the tumult beforehand. The sitting room was lit with candles, the warm light playing off the walls but not quite filling the space in its entirety. A pair of clean nightshirts had been placed on the sofa. Slowly, without meeting Enjolras’ eyes, Combeferre emptied the last of his washing water into a basin on the desk. It seemed an effort to even return the pitcher to its place on the washstand.

All was over; there was nothing to be done. The hum of energy and anxiety that had been Combeferre’s constant companion for what seemed like ages had gone, and the only thing left to take its place was a bitter, empty sadness.

At the desk, Enjolras had taken up a cloth to wash the dirt from his hands. Combeferre mutely watched him scrub over his fingers and knuckles, down his wrists and across the palms of his hands. The steady movements were almost comforting in their progression, and Combeferre watched them idly, exhaustedly. It was several moments before he realized Enjolras was watching him carefully, brows creased slightly and lips pressed into a thin line.

“I’m fine,” Combeferre said, trying with all his might to keep his voice steady. “You needn’t worry.”

“You don’t need to reassure me you are all right when I know you are not- when none of us are all right.” His tone was almost matter-of-fact. Enjolras dried his hands on a clean cloth and turned to Combeferre fully.

“What can be done now?” Combeferre asked hollowly, treading to the window and peering out into the darkness. The streetlamps were still broken; he could not see a thing. “Could it be too late to stir the city into action once more?”

“It may be worth it to try.” Enjolras smiled sadly. “But from the reactions I observed after the news spread, it is doubtful that Paris is as strong and hopeful as it was before this. We need not start over, however. We have done a great deal of work; we have published many articles, we have obtained sources for supplies, and have created a reliable network of contacts.” He had slowly walked up behind Combeferre at the window. The darkness of the street allowed Combeferre to see Enjolras’ clear reflection in the glass. “This loss is not permanent. Presently, it is terrible, but we must not fall into despair.” He was looking at Combeferre rather than out of the window. “We know humanity will reach its destined state; we need only help it along.”

“Sooner rather than later,” said Combeferre. He turned around to face Enjolras’ unusually softened expression. “That is the ideal, is it not?”

“It is.” Enjolras was looking at him with a mixture of trepidation and hope, and it made something in Combeferre’s chest tighten. “Progress marches onward, and so must we. We _must_ move forward in- in all aspects.” His head tilted slightly, and Combeferre took it for the suggestion it was. Carefully, he cupped Enjolras’ face in his hands and drew him forward for a kiss.

It was tentative only initially, Enjolras plainly at a loss of what to do, but Combeferre gently took control, tilting his head further and bringing Enjolras nearer, lips moving softly, heart pounding despite the gentleness of the action. After a moment, Enjolras relaxed and wrapped his arms around Combeferre so they were flush against each other, the kiss drawn out, slow and sweet.

Eventually, Combeferre was forced to break it off, out of breath from shock as much as from the kiss itself. For his part Enjolras was flushed, breathing shallow, his arms still around Combeferre. Almost dizzy, it took a moment for Combeferre to find his voice again.

“Are… are _you_ all right?”

The nod Enjolras gave in reply was mildly hazy. “Yes. Or at least, better now.” He leaned down slightly to press his forehead to Combeferre’s. “Please, don’t be troubled; I will have none of that.”

“I am not troubled… not about this. Perhaps I was, before; I suppose I was troubled when I did not know what to do, or when I refused to see-“ Combeferre smiled shakily. “But all of this- it did not come out of nowhere. I suppose nothing does. Everything must be formed from somewhere, to begin from something.”

“I… I suppose it must. And I am not certain where it might take us, but-“ Enjolras paused, searching for the proper words, and Combeferre took the opportunity to kiss him again, yet more tenderly this time, and Enjolras drew a slightly shaky breath afterwards as Combeferre pressed another small kiss onto his cheek.

“I know we are more accustomed navigating different paths than this, so to speak. Philosophy and politics and science, rather- rather than that of love.” Enjolras bowed his head at the word, seemingly pleased, before Combeferre continued. “…And I know you have never done this before in any sense but… I am willing to explore it, if you are as well.”

“Yes.” This time, Enjolras’ smile did not fade. “I would like that very much. And I know it will not be easy- but worthwhile endeavors rarely are.” He tightened his embrace and Combeferre, almost despite himself, felt his despair draining away.

“I am happy to hear it. You have no idea how much.”

There was a pause, each soaking in the silence and peace after so many days of unrest. It was with difficulty that Combeferre forced himself to speak again.

“It would be wise if we both settled down to sleep soon. There is still much to do. Meetings will need to be called, allies to be contacted. Courfeyrac will need tending, and we have all had so little rest.”

“Hmm.” Enjolras did not move away immediately. “Sleep, and then tomorrow we may discuss our course of action.” He pressed another kiss to Combeferre’s lips, and then another. Combeferre sighed into them and, once they had ceased, reached up to brush a lock of hair from Enjolras’ forehead and stroke his cheek. There was something in the way Enjolras leaned into his touch that made his heart ache in the most extraordinary way. He beamed.

“Tomorrow we move forward.”


End file.
